


If I Could Find a Way to See This Straight

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Series: I See Dead People [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Angst, Brothers, Bruce Wayne is "Dead", Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Batman, Dick is so stressed out help, Emotional Hurt, Falling out, Gen, Ghosts, Grief, Mourning, Tim Sees Dead People, argument, dick Grayson is Trying His Best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: “Whoa, Tim, hang on.” Dick grips Tim’s shoulders and feels him vibrating, like all of the energy that drained out of him when he learned Bruce was gone has returned tenfold. The kid is out of breath, and the dried tear tracks on his cheeks don’t match his oddly bright eyes or flushed complexion. “What are you talking about?”“Bruce,”Tim says, like it’s obvious. “We have to talk to Zatanna or Xanadu or Brand—anyone who knows about this kind of stuff.”“What stuff? You’re not making any sense.”“Bruce isalive.”
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Series: I See Dead People [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557490
Comments: 41
Kudos: 711





	If I Could Find a Way to See This Straight

_“Two months? Please tell me you’re joking.”_  
  
“Sorry, Lucius,” Dick says. “It’s short notice for us too, but you know how Bruce is.”  
  
 _“If he wanted a trip to Sweden so badly, couldn’t he have at least waited until the end of the quarter? He has three meetings tomorrow!”_  
  
“I know, and that’s why he’s appointed me interim Wayne for now. I’ll take the meetings as well as any of Bruce’s other responsibilities until he gets back.”   
  
Lucius sighs over the line. _“You know I love and respect your father, but one of these days I am going to smack that man upside the head.”_  
  
Dick laughs, but it tastes sour. His eyes drift to one of the picture frames lining the mantle over the den’s fireplace. A photo of Bruce, smiling at Alfred’s camera with an eight-year-old Dick Grayson sitting on his shoulders. “I know what you mean.”   
  
They end the call soon after, Dick promising to pass on a “get well soon” to Cass, who is down with pneumonia. At least, that’s what they told the press. She hasn’t been seen without tears in her eyes since the day Bruce died. Lately, all she does is train downstairs. Talks even less than she did before, and if it weren’t for Alfred’s stubbornness she might have died of starvation by now.   
  
It’s been difficult. _More_ than difficult. Even now, Dick staunchly fights the emotion that threatens to well, knowing that once he lets go it won’t stop. Just thinking about Bruce and the mess he left behind—the mess that _Dick_ is now in charge of sorting—makes him want to break into a million pieces.   
  
Batman. Wayne Enterprises. The Justice League, the Outsiders, training Damian, consoling Cass, locating Jason, worrying about Tim, _and_ —on top of everything else—it’s tax season. Everything Bruce left behind falls to Dick now.  
  
And Dick knows he’s cracking under the pressure. He might be more concerned if he were not riding on—he checks the date on his phone—six days without sleep. And counting. Alfred should be hoarse with the number of times he’s had to lecture Dick on taking care of himself as well as the family, but there is simply too much on his plate to leave room for self-care. Too much grief that _Dick_ needs to comfort. Too much responsibility that now weighs on _Dick’s_ shoulders. And too much loss. Far too much loss.   
  
Dick never knew how much of his life depended on Bruce—his guidance, his warmth, his stability. Dick finds himself floundering now at the absence; at the chasm which aches in every newly empty spot of his being that Bruce took with him when he died.   
  
He doesn’t know how he’s going to juggle it all without falling apart himself, but he needs to. And so he will.   
  
In a moment of weakness, Dick lets his head tip forward until his brow rests on the mantle. Five minutes, he promises himself. Five minutes of peace. Then he’ll tackle whatever duty calls him next, but please, Universe, just give him these five minutes.   
  
Alas, Dick forgot how much the universe hates him.   
  
Footsteps come charging down the stairs not thirty seconds in, and Dick opens his eyes. Sighs. _So much for five minutes._ He picks up his head and crafts a smile the best he can. He can’t let the others see how badly Bruce’s death is affecting him. Now when they need him to be strong.   
  
Damian is only one with any energy nowadays, so Dick mentally prepares himself for the firecracker. “What do you need, Dami—”  
  
“Dick, there you are!”  
  
 _That’s not Damian._ Dick’s breath catches in his throat and he turns around just in time to see Tim skid into the room, his hair a rat’s nest and in the same clothes he wore yesterday. But he’s _here._  
  
Tim hasn’t left his bed in days, and it’s gotten to the point where not even Alfred can convince him to shower or eat anymore. It’s true that they all lost Bruce, but Tim’s grief seems to have shut him down entirely, and all Dick can do is worry.   
  
Alfred didn’t want a public funeral for Bruce, so the family had their own private ceremony for him. Tim didn’t look at the coffin once. Not the headstone, either. In fact, if it wasn’t for the thud of his pulse as Dick held his wrist to provide some semblance of comfort, he might have worried that Bruce wasn’t the only corpse present.   
  
It’s on Dick’s list. Really, it is. To check on Tim, see how he’s doing, try and snap him out of this funk he’s been engulfed in since...well, since the last two years, if he’s being quite honest.   
  
But it was on the _list._ He never forgot about Tim. It was always there, hovering in the back of Dick’s mind. When the more pressing matters stopped breathing down his neck, threatening to choke him, he would talk to Tim. Check up on how he’s doing. Try to help him recover in whatever way he can.   
  
Dick knows it’s not his fault that his plate has been so full he can’t see the dish anymore, but it feels like it is. He’s so tired.   
  
“What’s wrong?” Dick asks, but Tim is already rambling so fast that Dick needs to consciously force his fatigued brain to track it.   
  
“—he’s in trouble I know it, all we have to do is find out where he went and we can—”  
  
“Whoa, Tim, hang on.” Dick grips Tim’s shoulders and feels him vibrating, like all of the energy that drained out of him when he learned Bruce was gone has returned tenfold. The kid is out of breath, and the dried tear tracks on his cheeks don’t match his oddly bright eyes or flushed complexion. “What are you talking about?”  
  
 _“Bruce,”_ Tim says, like it’s obvious. “We have to talk to Zatanna or Xanadu or Brand—anyone who knows about this kind of stuff.”   
  
“What stuff? You’re not making any sense.”  
  
“Bruce is _alive.”_  
  
Dick’s heart thuds to a stop as what Tim said sinks in, and for a split second, he dares to consider—no. _No._ Don’t go there. Dick bites his lip and squeezes his brother’s bony shoulder. “Tim…”  
  
Tim holds up a hand. “I know what you’re going to say, but I _swear_ I’m telling the truth. It’s not like those other times with Dad and Conner. Bruce _is_ alive.”   
  
“I...Tim, we buried him, remember? You saw the body.”   
  
“It was a fake. A trick or something, I don’t know. But listen, wherever Bruce is, we need to save him. I don’t know if he’s lost, or captured, or maybe he’s trapped in some alternate dimension, but...”   
  
Tim trails off, and he must see it. The doubt leaking through the cracks of exhaustion which Dick is trying so hard to hide, but it’s not easy. Not when his little brother is standing before him, arguing that a dead man is anything but that when the proof is six feet under the ground.   
  
“I’m not making this up, Dick. I promise.”  
  
Dick musters a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know you’re not.”   
  
“I’m not crazy.”  
  
“I know.”   
  
Tim’s jaw tightens. Brow twitches. Anger bubbles. “But you still don’t believe me.”   
  
“Do you have any proof?”   
  
Then there’s something. A falter as his eyes cut to the side. A chink in the armor, like Tim is leaving something out purposely, though Dick can’t imagine what that might be. “Not...exactly.” His eyes shift back to Dick, brow twisted. “But I’ll _find_ proof. All I need is a lead, and then we can start searching for him.”   
  
And Dick hates to admit, even to his own conscience, that the idea of letting Tim out of the house in this state makes him wary. But he doesn’t shoot him down. Not when he’s looking at Dick with those big, optimistic eyes, like the mere idea of Bruce coming back is his only lifeline and he will cling to it even when it slices his palms to ribbons.   
  
Dick chooses his words carefully. “What makes you so sure he’s alive?”   
  
“It’s...” That chink again. What is Tim not telling him? “It’s a feeling.”  
  
“I can’t drop everything and search for a dead man based on a feeling, Tim.”   
  
“I know, but it’s—it’s more than that.” His chin is raised, body tense like he’s gearing up for something. It might be intimidating if he wasn’t shorter than Dick by a full head and didn’t have bags under his eyes the size of Superman’s pecs.   
  
“Then _what?_ You know I want to support you, but with no evidence besides your gut telling you he’s alive, there’s nothing—”  
  
“I can’t see him.”   
  
Dick...blinks. “What?”  
  
“I can’t see Bruce,” Tim says. _“That’s_ how I know he’s alive.”   
  
“You’ve been seeing Bruce?” Dick is such an idiot. He _knew_ he should have checked on Tim sooner.   
  
“No, that’s the _point,”_ Tim says. “I’m supposed to be able to talk to him, but he’s not showing up, which means something is wrong.”  
  
Dick wets his lips. Keeps his voice even when he says, “How long have you been seeing things?”  
  
“Not _that_ kind of seeing. I don’t have a brain tumor.”  
  
“Then I’m going to need you to explain this to me, because you’re kind of freaking me out here, little brother. Did you hit your head? Or did you take something?” There’s a chance it might be fear gas, except Tim hasn’t left the manor in over a week. There’s no way he could have been exposed to it recently enough for it to be affecting him now.   
  
Tim runs a hand through his scraggly hair. He’s getting worked up, Dick can tell. “Look, I know you won’t believe me, but...I _see_ people after they die. When I go off my meds it makes it easier to access people and their voices, and—”  
  
“Wait, wait, wait. Pause.” Dick waves his hands. “You went off your meds? I thought you were on benzodiazepines.”  
  
“I don’t _need_ them. Not really. They just keep me from seeing stuff.”  
  
Dick wants to go outside, walk to the end of the driveway, scream into the void, and _then_ come back for this conversation. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You stopped taking your medication—”  
  
“I told you, I don’t actually _need_ it.”  
  
“—and now you’re imagining having conversations with our dead father.”  
  
“I know it sounds bad, but trust me, I know what I’m doing. I stopped taking the meds yesterday, so today I tried to see Bruce since there was nothing blocking my ability anymore, only he wouldn’t show up. Which means he must be _alive.”_  
  
Dick must not conceal his skepticism well enough, because Tim presses on. “I’m telling the truth! The last time this happened it was Steph, and we all know she wasn’t really gone, which means Bruce can’t be either!”   
  
Dick pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to wrap his head around it all. “I don’t know what that _means,_ Tim. So, what, you see visions, or—”  
  
“It means I see _ghosts,_ Dick. I saw Jason and your parents and I see goddamn _Thomas and Martha Wayne_ every time I close my eyes, but I haven’t seen Bruce. Not once. Which means he _can’t_ be dead, because if he were dead then at least I would still be able to fucking _see him!”_  
  
Dick wishes Bruce were here. Wishes he could guide him, tell him what to do to fix this. “How long have you…” He takes a deep breath. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Of course I’m sure. I’ve been this way my whole life.”   
  
“But you’re not a _metahuman,_ Tim, I’ve seen it. Your DNA is in the Batcave’s system, same as the rest of us. If you had the gene, it would have shown the marker for it.”  
  
Tim looks genuinely surprised by that, but he is not derailed. “Then I don’t know why I see ghosts. But I _do_ see them, Dick. I wouldn’t lie to you about this.”   
  
“I know you wouldn’t. But...are you _sure_ they’re ghosts? You’re not just...seeing something else?”  
  
Tim’s eyes narrow. “You think I’m hallucinating.”  
  
“I never said that.”  
  
“Then what _are_ you saying?”  
  
“Well, it’s not like you’ve ever mentioned having this ability before, Tim! Can you blame me for having my doubts?”  
  
“That’s because I was _keeping_ it from you. The only person besides me who knows about this is Conner.”  
  
“So you’re telling me that the only person in the whole world who can back up your story is _dead?”_ Dick slaps a hand over his mouth.   
  
As soon as the words come out, he wants to take them back. Swallow them back up and never show them the light of day again. Especially when Tim flinches back as if Dick struck him. And he might as well have, with a blow as low as bringing up Tim’s dead best friend.   
  
Dick is screwing this up. All of it. He knows he is, and he wants so _badly_ to make it stop, but...well, it’s absurd, right? His little brother. The kid he’s known for years, suddenly admitting to possessing this insane power that doesn’t show up in his genes, doesn’t have any witnesses, and is being used as the only basis for an impossible argument?   
  
Dick doesn’t want to lose Tim’s trust forever by not believing him now, but what will happen if he does? Is he better off lying to preserve Tim’s hope, or working sense into him while he still can?  
  
As much as Dick hates being callous, he hates false hope even more. And not just for himself, but for _them._ For this family, all of whom are depending on Dick to get them through this. What will happen if he lets himself believe what Tim says? And, worst of all, what if Bruce turns out to be dead anyway, and the emotional avalanche crushes Tim more than he’s already been crushed?   
  
Dick closes his eyes, counts to five, and opens them. “I want to believe you, Tim. Really, I do.”  
  
Tim’s scowl would make Bruce proud if he were here to see it. “Yet you choose not to.”   
  
“Do you have proof, then? Proof that what you’re saying about the ghosts is true? Proof that Bruce is really alive?”  
  
“I’ll _find_ proof.”  
  
“We buried his body, Tim! You were there! You know I want more than anything to be on your side, but without any evidence to back it up, what am I supposed to do? My job right now is to hold this family together, and I can’t do that if I’m off chasing what might not even be there!”  
  
“And what am I supposed to do?” Tim demands. “If I don’t have Bruce, then what the hell _do_ I have?”  
  
“You have me.” Dick can’t help it when his voice cracks.   
  
“I thought I did.” At that, the invisible wall holding Dick back breaks, and he reaches out to gather Tim in his arms. To hug him and keep all of his shattered pieces intact for as long as he can.   
  
_Please, let me do this. Let me protect you from disappointment. It’s the only thing I know how to do right anymore._  
  
But Tim backs away the second Dick moves, disdain emanating like heat from a bonfire. It’s an emotion Dick recognizes well, especially from Tim. He just never thought he’d ever see it directed at himself.   
  
_“Don’t_ touch me.” Tim smacks Dick’s arm away, teeth gritted and eyes blazing.   
  
Dick puts his hands up, and it’s a plea. “Please, Tim. I can help you. You can talk to someone, get a new prescription, or—”  
  
But Tim just shakes his head, backing away now. “I’m not crazy.”   
  
“I know you’re not.”  
  
“He’s _alive,”_ Tim snaps. “And if you don’t trust me enough to help me, then I’ll find him myself.” He turns on his heel and prepares to leave, pausing only when his hand touches the doorknob. His head tilts to the side, like an invisible interlocutor is whispering in his ear.   
  
Then Tim looks back at Dick, mouth twisted downward. “Your mom said for your sixth birthday they took you to an ice cream shop in Amsterdam and you got a chocolate cone with rainbow sprinkles.” Another brief pause. “She also says hi.”   
  
He slams the door, leaving Dick in shock. 

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon for this AU is that Tim's ability isn't from the metagene, but rather that when he was a kid he was messing around with some magical artifact his parents brought home that they didn't realize was magical, and it gave him the ability to see the dead. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you leave a comment, I'll pour soup in your shoes so your toes will be nice and warm. 
> 
> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


End file.
